


Small Things

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, I was really tired when I wrote this okay, M/M, miscommunication or something, no this is not about Sherlock's penis, sherlock POV, warning for a sort of reference to self harm to be on the safe side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Couldn't sleep and wrote this drabble instead. A crisis I imagine Sherlock might have in the early stages of his relationship with John. I never write angsty Johnlock without assuming that there is a happy ending to follow, but that doesn't mean I'll write the happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Things

The wind bit at Sherlock’s cheeks as he stood on the steps of the library, letting the perpetual rush and bustle of London wash over him. It was cold, but he kept his collar down, preferring the sting to the numb feeling of loss that threatened to pull him under if he did not keep it at bay.

Allegedly he was waiting for a suspect. In reality, the suspect did not need to be waited for, as there was a good chance he was dead and wouldn’t be moving until he was put in a body bag. He would be discovered soon enough. Normally Sherlock would have wanted to see the body as soon as possible, before anyone had time to tamper with it, but he could not bring himself to care.

He was losing John. Perhaps it wouldn’t have looked that way to an outsider, but Sherlock could feel it. It had been too idyllic to last; Sherlock had known this. He’d known from the start, but for once John had wanted _him,_ had reached out his steady, lovely hands to touch _him_ instead of some young woman with soft skin and a pretty smile, and how could Sherlock have resisted? He’d wanted it for so long that the logical part of his brain had succumbed easily, silenced for the first time in a long time by the hot flare of something else. It had seemed worth it, then. John’s attention all on him, John swearing under his hands, John looking at him with pupils blown wide. John groaning his name. And afterwards, John kissing him, brushing his curls away, making tea. John holding his hand in public. John giving him good morning kisses. John smiling at him. For the past couple of months, everything had been perfect, and Sherlock had pushed aside the whispers of caution that hovered in the back of his mind. 

It had started with Sherlock knocking a glass vial to the kitchen floor. John had had a rough day at work and Sherlock had thought to make tea, because boyfriends did that, didn’t they? He’d knocked the vial over in his haste and it had shattered, causing John to swear loudly and Sherlock to groan impatiently. He’d cleaned it up and thought he’d gotten all of the shards, but John had stepped on one he’d missed and had had to hobble to the bathroom to take it out, waving away Sherlock’s offer of help. Sherlock had apologized and John had kissed him and told him it was okay, but he’d known that it wasn’t just the vial he had broken. He’d felt it in his chest, a pulsing, hollow guilt that had only grown with every subsequent mishap.

They were small things, all of them. Things like an unread text, a mistake with the takeout order, violin too late at night, an inability to engage in polite conversation. Toes next to the milk in the fridge. The wrong response to a posed question. Silence where there should have been sound. Small things, but a lot of them, slowly but surely driving a wedge between them. Things that were Sherlock’s fault. They were in large part a result of Sherlock’s general uselessness when it came to normal human activities, which John had thus far been far more tolerant of than could be expected of any regular person. But everyone had limits, and Sherlock had reached John’s. The joy with which John had looked at him not even two months ago was shadowed now, as though the excitement had been leached out of it. He still said “I love you,” but it sounded distant, as though he were saying it because breaking out of the habit would be too much effort. He looked resigned, and Sherlock’s heart ached to see him looking that way, because John Watson was not supposed to be resigned. Not when he had Sherlock Holmes to supply adventure and adrenaline. The _point_ of Sherlock Holmes in John Watson’s life was too keep him from looking like that, and Sherlock had managed to fail at even this simple task. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of London, sighing at the wistful pang of nostalgia that it carried. If only they’d remained just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, friends, colleagues, flatmates. Maybe then, Sherlock wouldn’t have had the opportunity to screw everything up so royally. Maybe John would be standing here with him, instead of sitting in his office at the clinic because Sherlock hadn’t been able to work up the courage to ask him to come on a case for fear that he would say no, and it would be the end. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t feel as though he were choking on self-hatred, barely able to wait for the next chance he had to be scraped up by a criminal because at least then he’d be getting something of what he deserved for being such an idiot.

The sound of sirens and squealing tires pulled him from his thoughts. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly. Without John, he was half the detective he needed to be. And yet it seemed that even with John’s influence he’d proven he could only ever be half the man he needed to be to deserve him. Sherlock pulled his coat more tightly around himself and walked down the steps alone, the shouts and slamming of doors drowning out the sound of his sigh but doing nothing to warm the ice in his heart.


End file.
